


waging my wars behind my face and above my throat

by sxldato



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Humor, Deaf Clint Barton, Fear of Heights, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Stucky if you squint, Vomiting, because what's a fic written by me without that, brief mentions of clintasha, clint's canonically deaf, stop taking that away in fics, this fic is so adorable and gross it's my fave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-01
Updated: 2015-03-01
Packaged: 2018-03-15 20:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3460463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sxldato/pseuds/sxldato
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has a fear of heights. Clint is surprisingly helpful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	waging my wars behind my face and above my throat

**Author's Note:**

> i've had this written down in a journal since last summer, and only now have i finally typed it up and posted it because it's been a while since i gave you guys a fic involving bucky puking and crying and being a general mess.  
> i also love clint barton so much??? he's the kind of guy who would open his cabinet and only find dog biscuits and be like "well you know Lucky eats them so how bad can they be" and he's just such a gem. if you don't love clint barton you've done something wrong and you need to reevaluate  
> unbeta'd. i'll go over it later on  
> title is from Migraine by Twenty One Pilots  
> i think that's it. you guys know the drill by now this is gross and i'm trash yada yada yada go forth and be gross my fellow dumpster people

The first time Bucky had met Hawkeye, the archer had hit him really hard over the head and called it cognitive recalibration. This had earned Hawkeye a rather strong punch right to the nose, and it had taken an hour to get all the blood out of the grooves in Bucky’s metal fingers.

The second time was during the aftermath of a battle; Bucky had been wounded and had sought somewhere quiet to panic alone, because the combination of the cold winter air and the feeling of hot blood running down his arm were bringing back bad memories. Then the man with a bow and a quiver full of arrows had shown up, seeming to assess the situation in seconds and proceeding to treat him like a frightened, feral animal.

Bucky couldn’t exactly be angry about Hawkeye acting that way. In fact, it had probably been the smart thing to do. Nobody really knew how to handle the Soldier, not even Bucky himself, so there wasn’t such thing as too many precautions when his mind started slipping into that place.

He didn’t remember telling Hawkeye where the wound was, but he remembered the way Hawkeye’s voice had never wavered, always keeping that same quiet, firm tone as he pressed layer after layer of gauze against the wound. It was reassuring to have someone there as he tried to regain clarity, more comforting than he’d first expected.

As Hawkeye patched him up, he caught a glimpse of a thin cord following the shell of the man’s ear and curling around to the back of his head.

He must have seen Bucky staring, because he said, “You never see a hearing aid before?”

Bucky shook his head. “Not one like that. How does it work?”

“It takes in sounds and converts them into electrical signals, which are amplified—“ he was breaking off strips of surgical tape with his teeth and securing the gauze to Bucky’s arm—“so I can hear better.” He gestured to Bucky’s metal arm. “How does _that_ work?”

“… I don’t know.”

Hawkeye sat back against a pile of rubble. “Well, I lost my hearing, you lost your arm—maybe we got something in common.”

The first time Bucky met Clint Barton, he was sitting in the kitchen of the Avenger’s Tower, eating an entire box of Oreos. Bucky figured that he’d had them before—they’d been first created in 1912, and that was before he’d even been born, let alone before he became the Soldier—but he couldn’t remember any specific moments.

Clint had decided that this was a serious problem that needed to be fixed immediately and ended up splitting the box with Bucky. This launched an intense argument about how one should go about eating an Oreo because Bucky was twisting them apart and Clint was appalled.

“You’re supposed to eat it all at once! You don’t eat the cream first!”

“The cookie’s the best part, so I save it for last.”

“… That’s blasphemy.”

“I did not fall off a train for this kind of unsolicited judgment.”

“You come into _my_ kitchen, tell me that the _cookie_ part of the Oreo is _better_ —“

“Because it’s true! And this isn’t even your kitchen!”

Steve and Natasha had to come break them up.

The second time Bucky met Clint Barton, he’d woken from a nightmare and Steve wasn’t in the next room. Clint was the second closest, and he’d come running when Bucky cried out. He didn’t ask any questions besides “can you breathe” and “what do you need me to do,” which Bucky greatly appreciated because he doubted he’d have been able to answer anything else. Clint stayed with him until he fell asleep, telling stories about him and Natasha that Bucky was sure only half were actually true.

In an exhaustion-induced daze, Bucky asked, “You and Nat… are you guys together?”

Clint made a sort of strangled sputtering noise. “What—no! No, no no! We’re not—aha, where’d you—where’d you get that _ridiculous_ idea—“

“Barton.”

Clint looked like he feared for his life. “You’re not gonna kill me, are you? Because she told me about you guys, when you trained in the Red Room—“

“I’m barely stable enough to take care of myself. Do you really think I’m prepared for a relationship?”

“I… okay, yeah.”

Bucky won twenty dollars from Bruce the next morning.

He figured Clint was the closest thing to a friend that he had right now, so he wasn’t really concerned about being paired up with him for a surveillance assignment. It made sense; they were both typically far-range fighters with a knack for staying hidden. Natasha was undercover in Berlin, the details of which were as she’d said, “on a need to know basis,” so Clint was otherwise partnerless.

What Bucky didn’t like was heights. Especially high-rise catwalks.

They brought back things from his past that he’d rather keep tucked away, sent chills down his back, made him feel sick. And as misfortune would have it, Clint was taking them somewhere up high. Bucky should have known; the guy was practically half-bird. He’d seen him sitting on top of the refrigerator once.

“We’ll stake out here,” Clint explained as they climbed the last flight of stairs and surveyed the area on the walkway that was easily fifty feet in the air and was making Bucky’s vision swim from vertigo. “Fury’s giving us orders through my earpiece. Nobody’s here right now—today’s just scouting out the space from our lookout spot, making sure we have a good view of every—hey, you okay?”

His heart was beating so fast it felt like it was about to break free of his chest. His ribs were constricting around his lungs, making it hard to breathe. His knees buckled and he gripped the railing of the catwalk to prevent himself from collapsing. Flashes of the train, of falling through the harsh cold air for what felt like centuries, shot through his mind and made his spine prickle.

“Barnes.” Clint’s voice was steady despite the obvious concern. “Where are you right now?”

“I… It’s changing,” Bucky managed.

It was 1943, and and he and Steve were breaking out of HYDRA’s base, making their way along a catwalk just like the one he and Clint were on over seventy years later. For the first time in his life, he was letting Steve stand in front of him, _protect_ him-- Steve, who was now larger than life and had a body big enough for that heart of his.

Zola was on the other side, along with Schmidt, filling Bucky to the brim with fear. The way Zola was looking at him was making his skin crawl and he wanted to wrap his hands around his neck and squeeze until he couldn’t anymore. Zola had done things to him, awful things that would live with him forever. He’d forgotten so much, so many things he desperately wanted to remember, but those moments when he was helpless and strapped to an operating table would never leave him.

His balance was faulty from the drugs he’d been pumped with and his whole body felt weak. To make matters worse, he had to walk across a beam that was just barely wide enough for his feet and easily five stories above the ground. It broke just as he jumped to the other side.

He was holding the steel railing so tight, his bionic arm was warping the metal. He was shaking and clammy, and there was an awful taste at the back of his throat. His jaw clenched and his grip on the railing grew stronger as he willed himself not to be sick.

“Aw, crap, are you—“ Clint broke off to mutter something into the earpiece; Bucky caught the words “compromised” and “out of my depth,” and supposed he should at least _try_ to reassure Clint that he wasn’t dying (even though he felt like it) or malfunctioning or whatever the hell Clint thought was happening.

“Not… not outta your depth, Clint,” he choked out.

“Are you alright?”

Looking at the ground was exacerbating the nausea. A second passed and he decided that he should step away from the railing. Another second and his body made it very clear that he wasn’t going to move a damn inch because he was doubling over himself and retching.

Clint’s hand was on his back and he was saying something, but Bucky couldn’t focus long enough to tell what the words were. He blinked and the concrete below him turned into a snowy hillside in Russia, and he was falling, falling—

His guts twisted up, knotting themselves over and over, and he lurched forward again to vomit.

Clint was speaking hurriedly into his earpiece again, making sure to keep Bucky steady. It was a comfort to have someone touching him; it was grounding, brought him back to earth when he didn’t know which way was up or down.

Even in his haze of sickness, it was clear that Clint was trying to get ahold of Steve, which just humiliated Bucky even more on top of everything else.

“Don’t tell Steve,” he wheezed, closing his eyes against the relentless queasy feeling in his stomach that didn’t seem like it was going to let up any time soon. “Don’t, please…”

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Clint whispered before returning to the conversation on the earpiece. “Yeah, Cap? What do I—yeah, he’s really out of it… No, nothing violent, he’s just puking over the rail--”

“Did you really need to be specific?” Bucky asked weakly before gagging again. Bile pooled around his lips and dripped down in long, sickening strings.

“I don’t think he’s—I mean, I can try? I’ll try.” Clint lowered his hand from his ear and continued to look at Bucky with deep concern. “We’re gonna get you out of here, James. How’s that sound?”

“Fantastic,” Bucky croaked.

“You need some more time?”

“Gimme a minute,” he said, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as he hiccupped. The nausea was waxing and waning rapidly, and he knew it wasn’t going to go away completely until he was on solid ground. It was best if they try and leave now, rather than waiting. “Okay, okay.”

“You wanna let go of the—“

“No,” he said as forcefully as he could. “No, I’ll… I don’t want to fall.” His voice abruptly became very quiet.

Realization dawned in Clint’s face as he looked from the ground, to Bucky, to the deformed metal of the railing, and back to Bucky again. “Ohh,” he said, drawing the sound out slowly. “Alright, uh, how’s this: put one hand on me while you’re still holding on, and then move the other hand. That way you’ll always be holding on to something. Think that could work?”

Bucky still dreaded the idea of ever letting go of such stability, but he was sick and tired, and he really wanted to get the fuck off this catwalk. “Let’s give it a shot.”

His flesh-and-blood hand trembled violently as he moved it to grip the archer’s shoulder. His metal hand was gradually releasing its grip on the rail. “Will you be mad at me if I puke on you?”

“Nah, no worries.”

His heart leapt into his throat as he moved his left hand to Clint’s bicep and beads of sweat jumped onto his skin. It was hard not to hold on tight, but he didn’t want to warp Clint’s arm like he’d warped the metal railing.

“I got you, I got you,” Clint murmured. “We gotta go down some stairs now, so focus on me if you need. I can talk to you the whole way down or you can talk to me. Whatever’ll help you get down the stairs, okay?”

“Can barely _breathe_ ,” he gasped. “Don’t wanna talk, just don’t let go of me, please.”

“Course I won’t, I promise.” To prove his point, he stepped closer to Bucky to get a steadier hold on him. “It’s a few flights of stairs, but there’s an elevator on the fifth floor—unless you’re claustrophobic.”

“We can find out,” Bucky said, swallowing thickly to keep himself from getting sick again.

The trip down the stairs was slow but steady. Bucky was shivering violently and was worryingly pale, but he was mobile, and that was the most important thing. They were both quiet until they made it to the elevator, which was when Bucky broke the silence.

“I feel so stupid,” he muttered, hugging himself around the chest.

“You’re not stupid,” Clint said. “It’s okay to be scared of things, especially someone with a past like yours.”

Bucky glanced at him, blinking back the stinging feeling in his eyes. “When does it stop?”

“The panic attack--?”

“Being afraid.”

Clint didn’t look like he’d been expecting that question. “Well, uh… There’s not really a solid answer. Sometimes it never stops. Sometimes the fear is always there, always lurking. But there are ways to control it, ways you can cope with it… make it more bearable.”

“So you and Steve? Nat and Sam and everybody? Would you…?”

“We’ll do whatever we can.”

The elevator clattered to a stop, but before the doors opened Bucky said, “I think they used to play music,” and Clint grinned.

A few twists and turns down long corridors, and they were outside. Bucky was still pretty wobbly, so Clint wrapped an arm around his shoulders to help him walk. They were going to head out onto the main boulevard and hail a taxi, but Bucky spotted a familiar motorcycle parked precariously on the sidewalk. An even more familiar man was leaning against it, looking very anxious, like he was waiting for someone.

“That’s Steve,” Bucky said, half to himself. “What—“

Steve’s eyes landed on them and his expression lit up. “Oh, thank god.” He closed the distance between them in three long strides and pulled Bucky into a close embrace. “I was so worried—“

“Steve, I’m okay--“ All the leftover tension evaporated from his body as Steve kissed him on the crown of his head and smoothed down his hair. “I’m okay now.”

Steve met Clint’s gaze over Bucky’s shoulder. “Thank you—for keeping him safe.”

Clint shrugged. “I’ve been where he is. I know it can get messy.”

“Can we go home and not talk about what just happened?” Bucky suggested.

“That motorcycle only fits two people,” Clint said.

“Can’t you fly, Barton?” Bucky replied, a glimmer of a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You’re getting me confused with Sam—but I’ll take the train. Steve can take you home—“

“No, hey—“ Bucky reached out and grabbed Clint’s wrist. “We’ll all take the train.”

“Steve’s motorcycle—“

“I can pick it up once we get Bucky back to the tower,” Steve said. “It’s no problem.”

Clint looked back at Bucky. “You okay with going underground?”

“… Pretty sure, yeah.”

“That’s good enough.”

The roaring of the trains as they rushed past was almost too much, but it ended up being okay.

**Author's Note:**

> prompts are always welcome!  
> 


End file.
